There is peril and agony for the portrait photographer. I am living that right now.
This afternoon, while walking with Niño, I found a pristine
photo album without any pictures in it. Why would anybody throw it away?
Walking back with Niño with the album in my hand I thought that I would write
what I am writing this instant. Perhaps one of my two granddaughters might find a use for the album.
My house, a house I shared with Rosemary for almost five years, has memories of her all over. From our bed to our dinner wear that she chose, the faces of our two cats, to her perennials bidding me a fall goodbye in our garden, they are a constant reminder of what I have lost.
But worse (except for the living faces of Niño and Niña staring at me and do they know or remember?) are the many (as in many) framed portraits that I have taken through the years of the family. This evening I was too lazy to go upstairs to where the king goes alone (as my grandmother used to tell me) and I entered the guest bathroom. Facing me are three portraits of Rosemary. I was overcome by a sense of longing for her and of a loss of not having her here.
Even the piano room is no refuge from this. On the piano I have an extensive collection of pewter frames with family photographs.
Is there no escape for me?